Dead Wrong (12 page)

Nothing from Carl. Also, nothing from her bank or brokerage firm alerting her to unusual activity on her accounts. She closed her eyes, trying to remember her bank passwords. Creating unique and secure passwords for each of her online accounts had a downside. While she struggled to remember, she reminded herself that Sammy the Creep had her statement, account number, login name, and password.
I’m an idiot.

Besides the usual spam, her Inbox contained an email from Dave Buchanan at the
Reporter.

That’s odd.
The two hadn’t been in touch since she left Indianapolis.

She’d send an email to Blue first, then Dave. She’d have to go back to the investment account password later. Pulling her purse into her lap, she searched its contents for the napkin with Blue’s information on it, then wrote a short email to let Blue and Grace know she was okay. If the two girls met the early bus from Denver, expecting Lynnette to be on it, they might think she’d taken off for good.

Then she opened the email from Dave Buchanan. It said:
Where are you? What’s happened? Call now. Urgent.
She replied:
I have information that might be a story. Need to talk, but I lost phone list. Send work number stat.

She heard a ping that signaled incoming mail. Blue wrote:
Where are you? I’ll pick you up. Sixty minutes max.

Lynnette frowned. Wouldn’t it be better to avoid the girls? Why put them in danger? She would tell Blue not to come.

Her Inbox pinged again. She closed Blue’s message and opened the response she’d received from Dave. He had listed three different phone numbers and added:
Call right now. Urgent.
Lynnette shivered as she jotted down the numbers and stuffed the paper in her pocket.

Another ping from the computer. Lynnette opened the new email from Blue.
You still there? Where are you?

Lynnette hit Reply.
D.U. Library. Don’t come. I have other plans.

The answer came right back.
We’re on our way. We went to campus and picked up my car. Watch for us. It’s a black Kia Rio.

Lynnette mentally kicked herself for mentioning her location. She hit Reply again and typed:
No, Blue. You and Grace are safe. You don’t need to get involved. Too dangerous.

She hit Send and waited. No response.

With a sigh, she hit Reply on Dave’s email.
Dave, I can’t call you yet. I need to get to a different phone. Will call in two or three hours and explain everything.

She hit Send, logged out, and started to close the browser. Before she could do so, Sammy’s cell phone vibrated against her hip.

She checked the display and confirmed the call did not come from her cell. The number didn’t match the one used by the man she’d decided to call The Cuban, either. This new number came from a different area code, one she couldn’t identify. She didn’t answer it.

She listened to the remaining messages on Sammy’s phone, hoping The Cuban had said something to give away his identity. If this guy wanted the goods Sammy had in his laptop case, and Lynnette now possessed them, The Cuban could be tracking her on his own.

Methodically, she went through the voice mail. The first two were from The Cuban. He threatened to kill Sammy if he didn’t call. Then everything changed.

The last voice mail from The Cuban said, “If this message is received by Lynnette Hudson, also known as Lynnette Foster, you should know that Sammy Grick died early this morning in a Denver hospital. My representative picked up his personal effects. I know who you are, Mrs. Foster, and I have all of the information I need to track you down. Sammy had your laptop and personal papers. His case, which included items belonging to me, is missing. I understand why you don’t want to be found, but I want the case and everything in it, and I want it now. My man has been dispatched to find you. He’ll be in touch.”

Holy shit!
Who was this guy? Why would The Cuban in L.A. have a contact in Denver able to track the fat guy so fast? Or had he sent someone to Denver specifically to find Sammy Grick? She glanced around the room to see if anyone watched her. The hairs on her arms rose as though a cold breeze had blown through the room. Her heartbeat hopped once, then again. Her mouth felt dry. She set the phone down and reopened the browser. The Cuban had her name, her home address, and all the contacts in her computer email and on her cell phone. If he did an Internet search on her name, what would he find?

She brought up a search engine and typed in Lynnette Hudson. There were links to a couple of her old stories in
The Indy Reporter,
but little else. When she tried searching for Lynnette Foster, however, there was breaking news.

The first three entries were from the online version of the Thursday
Miami Herald.
The first entry’s title read:
South Florida Woman Sought as Person of Interest.
Lynnette’s hand trembled as she placed her cursor on the link and clicked. Seeing her photo prominently displayed at the top left corner of the article shocked her.

Carl. That bastard. What had he said? That she stole something and ran off?
She started to read the article, then covered her mouth with her hand as she read the next sentence and discovered why the cops wanted to talk to her. She read it again, then leaned back in her chair and stared at the screen. Thinking to cool the flush of her cheeks, she put both hands to her face. She then thrust her ice-cold hands between her knees to warm them and hunched forward, trying not to cry.

The crawly feeling returned. She glanced over her shoulder and looked around the room. No one watched. She read the whole article. Someone had murdered Carl. The cops considered her a person of interest. They didn’t know for sure, but thought she might be in Denver or Los Angeles. They reported she might be traveling under her maiden name, Hudson.

It must have been on television. That’s why the coffee shop lady had called the police.

Did the cops think she murdered Carl? Why would they? The fact that she’d disappeared? The note she’d left on the kitchen table? She tried to remember exactly what she wrote.

Something else bothered her. She read the article again.
Ah, there it is.
There were no signs of forced entry at their house. Would Carl be foolish enough to leave the door unlocked? Or answer the door and let his killers walk inside? Not in a million years.

The patio door. I can’t remember securing the sliding glass door.
Lynnette felt sick to her stomach.

What else?
She read on. Time of death. There might be a delay establishing time of death because the house was so cold when the cops found Carl’s body.
That’s my fault, too.
She had turned the air conditioner off when she left. By the time Carl came home, he probably had to crank up the air full blast to make the overheated, stuffy house bearable.

Had Blue or Grace seen the news? Were they picking her up only to turn her over to the police? Maybe the “we” Blue mentioned included Blue and her dad. Or Blue and the cops.

The email from Dave seemed suspicious as well. What had he said?

Where are you? What’s happened? Call me. Urgent.

Would he alert the police that she’d be calling him soon? Lynnette heard whispers nearby. She closed the browser.

With a quick glance at her watch and another around the room, she grabbed her purse and laptop and hurried to the restroom. She went straight to the handicapped stall at the back and locked herself in, sat on the toilet, and wept.

She had wished horrible things on Carl right after he hit her, but she never wanted anything like this to happen. Thoughts of what he might have gone through flooded her mind. She tried to push them away so she could decide what to do. A picture of the unlocked patio door intruded time and again. Was she to blame?

Dabbing her eyes with wads of toilet tissue, she took a couple of deep breaths and willed her feelings of guilt and self-pity to take a hike. She glanced at her watch. Another ten minutes before Blue might show up. Someone came in to use the rest-room, then washed her hands and left. Lynnette went to the sink, applied cool wet paper towels to her eyes, then applied more makeup.

After peering closely at her reflection, she used her fingertips to brush at the edges of the flesh-colored liquid layered on her discolored face. She combed her hair again and fluffed it over her forehead. As she walked out of the restroom, she took her sunglasses out of her purse.

The sun had burned the haze away, leaving no sign of the early-morning frostiness. Even the mountains to the west appeared sharp and clear, the sky the soft blue of a baby’s blanket. A park bench sat in the sun near the sidewalk. Lynnette sank onto the bench as though she’d completed a three-mile run.

Students with knit caps pulled over their ears, others with no caps at all, most with jackets and backpacks, rushed past. Older men and women, all carrying large briefcases, passed at a more sedate pace.
Professors?

A man wearing an old-fashioned tweed jacket with suede elbow patches hurried along the sidewalk in her direction, surveying everyone he passed. He carried a black case in his right hand and held the bowl of a pipe in his left. As he approached Lynnette, he studied her as if trying to memorize her every feature. He took the pipe out of his mouth and tucked it in his jacket pocket. As he strode past, he continued to stare.

He wouldn’t see much more than his own reflection in her sunglasses. Even so, Lynnette looked away to avoid his gaze. He paid too much attention to her. The case he carried in his right hand caught her eye. It looked exactly like the one she’d lost to Sammy Grick, but she couldn’t remember a single identifying characteristic that would tell her for sure.
If I ever get it back, I’ll carve my initials across both sides and tie yellow and pink yarn around the handles.

Lynnette looked over her shoulder once and then again a few seconds later. When the man disappeared through the doors, she picked up her purse and the laptop. His behavior troubled her. He paid too much attention to the people around him. No one else did that.

Get lost in the crowd. Walk down the street. Keep pace with the students. Cross over. Walk back. Look like you know where you’re going. Appear preoccupied, but pay attention.

Watch for Blue!

Denver, Colorado
Thursday, January 23

Inside the DU Library, Albert found a quiet corner where he could make a phone call. When he reached Benny Ortega, he asked the obvious question. “How will I know her?”

“Can you get online?” Ortega asked.

“Yes. I’m at the library.”

“There’s a front-page article in the
Miami Herald.
It’s been picked up by the wires. Search on her married name, Lynnette Foster, and you’ll see it. There’s a picture of her. Read the whole thing. Some guy at the ticket counter in Miami says she had a black eye and her face was all bruised, like she’d been in an accident.”

“And she should have Sammy’s briefcase,” Albert said.

“He was supposed to be carrying a black laptop case. I’m guessing it looked like the bag she had, and that’s how Sammy screwed things up. You have her case now?”

“I do. I have it with me.”

“Good. Find her. The tracking device is in Sammy’s cell phone so we shouldn’t have any trouble as long as she keeps that phone.”

“And you’re sure she’s still at this library?”

“My people will call me as soon as she starts moving. Right now, she should be inside the library, in the southwest quadrant. Floor unknown.”

“May I ask a question?” Albert said.

“Shoot.”

Albert chuckled at Ortega’s choice of words. “Am I supposed to kill Foster?”

“That depends,” Ortega said. “If everything happens the way I want it to, there will be no need.”

“As long as she cannot identify you.”

“Or you,” Ortega said, and hung up.

Albert headed for the copy machines near the reference desk. It took ten minutes to copy Lynnette Foster’s financial papers and the pages of her address book. When he finished, he placed the copies in his jacket pocket, found a computer, and brought up the
Miami Herald
’s website. After reading the article about the death of Glades police officer Carl Foster, he studied the photo of Foster’s wife.

She was attractive, maybe late twenties or early thirties. He couldn’t tell how tall she was, or the color of her hair, whether she might be wearing it in a ponytail or even have cut it short since the picture was taken. She looked like the dozens of young women he’d observed outside the library roughly thirty minutes earlier.
Like the one sitting on the bench by the sidewalk.

He thought about her for a moment. Her hair was short, and she didn’t carry a case for her laptop. Besides, Ortega had not said Foster was on the move. She should still be inside the library. Time to start looking. He planned to cover the southwest quadrant of the first floor, then the lower level, the first floor again, and then the two floors above. He’d need to recruit a female to check the restrooms. Not a problem. He could be very charming when he wanted to be.

Denver, Colorado
Thursday, January 23

Lynnette walked around the block three times before she stopped at a coffee shop. She felt conspicuous as she traveled the same path over and over, especially when the between-class break ended and fewer students hurried from building to building.

With a large coffee and a cheese sandwich, she picked a small table in the corner near the front window, confident no one could see her while she could easily see everyone who passed or came inside. With her back to the other tables, no one except the inattentive barista was likely to notice the condition of her face. She slid her sunglasses up so they rested on the top of her head and unwrapped her sandwich.

She hadn’t realized how hungry she was, but she took her time, savoring every bite. Patting her jacket pockets to see if she had room to carry an extra snack, she felt a moment of panic when her right side pocket felt emptier than it should have. She sucked in her breath and struggled to get inside the jacket, but she already knew. She had lost Sammy Grick’s phone.